Here I am in the Canary Islands, visiting my boyfriend´s family. Tonight we´ll dine late, but it will be worth the wait: the big guns are coming out. Tonight it´s all about fresh langoustines, fillet steak, champagne, then traditional turrón and some rather moreish homemade biscotti that I brought along to accompany the coffee.

But I´m not writing this to boast about el papeazo que me voy a pegar, as they say here. The food-related curiosity I want to share will take place a little later. In Spain, it´s traditional to gobble up twelve grapes on the twelve strokes of midnight. Sounds easy, but it´s an art that´s difficult to master without choking or at least dribbling. Survivors get to welcome in the new year.

The first year I joined in with this locura I was a novice, confidence sky high, eyes bigger than my mouth, throat, gullet and stomach combined. Off we went: dong! One grape. Dong! Another. Dong! So far so good, although my jaw was working at double-dong speed and my mouth was still half-full of grapes. Dong! The fourth grape went in to replace what I´d swallowed. My first mistake (see below). Dong! At the fifth, I made the mistake of glancing at my boyfriend and his family (be warned: smiling is to chewing what chocolate is to the waistline). Dong! Smiling also induces dribbling… Dong! Now I was dribbling and being seen to be dribbling in front of a family I´d been hoping to impress. Dong! Getting the giggles is not going to help you at all, mi hija. Concentrate. Dong! And I was out of the race, still chewing frantically and gurning politely to stop any further juice haemorrhage.